


allegretto cantabile

by royalwisteria



Series: in all the universes, it will be you [5]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Clarke Plays Piano, F/M, First Meetings, and i really really like classical music, bellamy is a violinist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:11:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1989342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalwisteria/pseuds/royalwisteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy is a concertmaster and he doesn't like sharing his spotlight, especially with concert pianist Clarke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> musical terms!
> 
> concertmaster = first violinist. they usually play the solos, decide fingering, bowing, etc and is the most important member of an orchestra after the conductor/director.  
> allegretto cantabile = moderately fast, singingly. it would be listed at the beginning of the score as a direction on how to play the music.
> 
> most of the composers I mention are pretty famous and I included links to the concertos that are directly mentioned, but here's a list:
> 
> Sibelius: Violin Concerto in D Minor, op. 47  
> Debussy: Le Mer  
> Tchaikovsky: Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-flat Minor, op. 23
> 
> I especially love the Tchaikovsky piece, but I recommend checking them all out! I really like classical music a lot ahahaha.

The violin lessons started when he was six and it has been a downwards spiral of obsession ever since. His mom had been insistent, assured that this would be good for his upbringing, telling him that his sister would start as soon as she hit six. Instead of violin, though, Octavia learns cello. All through their school years, Bellamy is both envious and relieved that he doesn’t have that huge case to carry around with him. It looks both a shield and an anchor around the neck, dragging the person down to the bottoms of the ocean. The violin feels more like iron shackles to an iron ball, keeping him down.

Octavia drops the cello when in high school and picks up acting. It feels like a betrayal, but Bellamy’s too busy being the first violin in the school’s orchestra to let it ever sink in. It is later, in college, that he wishes he could ring her up and ask for her advice on something and then realizes when the call connects that she doesn’t play anymore.

At college, he is called a prodigy. He doesn’t like the term; he practices for hours every single day and when he sleeps he reads scores in his dreams. His violin is tucked under his chin, neck resting comfortably in his hand and the bow held to rest just above the strings; he doesn’t usually play in his dreams. It’s odd how his dreams are a tableau of his life. One of his good friends would read into that, but he’s far more into that psychic shit than Bellamy is. Dreams are dreams, nothing more.

After college, he spends some time in Vienna and Paris, entering competitions, but soon returns to the USA and lands a spot in one of the local orchestras. It is a quick climb to concertmaster, and then he’s suddenly catapulted onto a national stage after a [Sibelius concerto](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YsbrRAgv1b4) he performs. It receives such rave reviews that people come from all the major cities in the US: Chicago, NYC, LA, the like. He’s offered a position in Chicago and he takes it.

He is thirty when he becomes concertmaster for the CSO. His first concert would have been more nerve-wracking if he wasn’t so concerned about sneezing half-way through the [Debussy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hlR9rDJMEiQ) piece the conductor chose because he is _this_ close to having a full-blown cold. He doesn’t and the Chicago Tribune is fairly nice to him the next morning. It’s a good, heart-warming feeling somehow.

But he has never been good at non-violin concertos. He is not good at highlighting other people’s grand solos, which are what concertos require most of the time. He stopped accommodating for others like that when Octavia quit. She was the last one he was willing to give way for; his parents and then just his dad raised him to be out for number one, for other musicians to be a pile to climb and play triumphantly from on top of.

It is why he is not looking forward to meeting Clarke Griffin, concert pianist, who he’s pretty sure is chosen to play because her mother is on the Board of Directors. The others pick up on it; trumpet player Jasper notices and whispers about it to oboist Monty, who passes it on to nearly the entire orchestra that he doesn’t want to play with this girl.

She’s also late, which is something Bellamy never tolerates. He doesn’t budge an inch even when she steps out of a cab with deep eye bags, toting a bag that Bellamy’s pretty sure is Gucci with D&G sunglasses propped on her blonde head.

“You’re late,” he says, leaning against the door to the building they rehearse in.

She sighs and says, “I tried taking the El and got lost. You know, Chicago’s quite a confusing city.”

“Your first time here, then?” Bellamy asks, watching her run up the few steps to the door.

“Yeah,” she says, standing in front of him. It takes him a moment to realize he’s blocking her access to the door and then he moves. “I also just got back from Italy; I’m exhausted.”

Italy. Bellamy wanted to do a semester in Italy more than anything; he wanted to explore the streets of Florence, see the waterways of Venice and see the once decadent glory of Rome. His advisor shot that down and told him Prague was the better choice. He hated Prague and took as many trips around Europe as he could. Prague is a beautiful European city, a mixture of Gothic architecture, with modern buildings now and there, with some Slavic influence, but it’s not Italy. He wanted to see the Roman Forum, the Medici homes, a city that won’t exist in one hundred years: he wanted an entirely different European experience. Besides, Czech doesn’t appeal to him like the romanticism of Italian.

He hates her a little more based on this. Petty, but Bellamy never outgrew pulling on pigtails.

“Is that so,” he says, following her into the darkened interior. “Practice room is this way.”

Clarke turns around, a sheepish smile on her face that Bellamy doesn’t return. The smile slides off. “So, how long have you been playing?”

“Do you even know what I play,” he asks, deadpan.

She blinks and grabs his arm before he opens the door. “Look, do we have a problem?” Her face is serious, eyes flinty and there are endearing tendrils of golden hair on one side of her face.

“What makes you think there is?”

She sighs, relinquishing his arm. “I’m not an idiot, but you seem to be one. You seem to think I got here on my parent’s power, and that’s on you.” She shrugs then narrows her eyes at her, hand on the handle to the door. “Do you even like the violin? Or music?” Then she pushes on the handle, flings the door open and enters with her head held high.

Stunned, he follows her in and notices that she’s already greeted most of the orchestra and is chatting animatedly with a few of them as she gets comfortable at the piano set up for her. He picks up his violin case and stands by his chair staring at her; her words remain in his head. Does he like music? He might not care for the violin, a remnant of wanting to play tag with friends, swing at the playground, sled during winter, but being kept inside to practice instead. Music, though, he’s pretty sure he loves. But pretty sure isn’t a definitive yes.

She doesn’t look back at him and is stretching while chatting with Roma, one of the cellists. Miller, second violin, glances at him then back to Clarke with a smirk and a raise eyebrow. He scowls back.

“Don’t say anything,” he hisses.

“You look jealous,” Miller says anyways. “It’s a good look for you.”

“You’re asking for a black eye,” he growls back, but without any real anger. Miller just smiles sweetly and sits down, fiddling with his violin.

In a few minutes, everyone is sitting down and tuning. Clarke is playing mindless keys on the piano, and Bellamy has to admit that she does seem to know what she’s doing. Then again, keys aren’t exactly Tchaikovsky, who is the composer of the [concerto](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0uoR76XEVPY) she’s playing. It’s a difficult, technical piece and doesn’t fit her image at all; it's too bombastic for her, too much emphasis.

The conductor shoes up and, an hour and a half later, when they’ve finished their second play-through, Clarke tosses him a self-satisfied smirk over her shoulder. He has to admit, she is good. They take an official break now and, putting his violin gently in its case, he approaches her.

She ignores him and walks off to chat with Roma. It’s only fair, he supposes, but she did so well— he was captured. Bellamy never thought he’d say this, but he’s fallen in love with someone else’s music and it’s only been one concerto. He’d hate to hear her play Bach, Mozart, some Ravel— oh, _god_ , he can only imagine her playing the Mother Goose suite, or one of his other light, airy pieces, fingers dancing on the keys.

Miller nudges him with a grin and he scowls back.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke has literally just flown in from Italy and she really doesn't want to deal with Bellamy's crap. She's not here on her parents ticket, _okay_ , she's here on her own merit.

Clarke grew up in Boston, which is why she’s comforting herself while standing outside the State/Lake train station staring around in confusion, propping her sunglasses on her head. While Chicago is a big, major city like Boston, the transit system is completely different. In Boston, there is no Loop. There are no stops with similar names to be completely turned around by. Glancing at her watch, she realizes that she has exactly five minutes to make it to practice on time. And if there is one thing Clarke hates, it’s being late.

Sighing and giving up totally and completely, she hails a cab. At least this is the same no matter what major city you’re in. She knows she could try and walk the distance, since it’s only a few blocks according to her smart phone, but she flew in from Italy last night and she is dead on her feet. She wanted to fly in a couple days earlier, get the feel for the city so she wouldn’t get so turned around, but her schedule in Italy had forbidden it. The Symphony Orchestra of the Augusteo, one of Rome’s orchestras, had simply not permitted it even though it had been a few weeks since her last performance; what followed had been two weeks of celebrating and Clarke trying to practice while tired and a little hungover because Italians can _drink_. She’s not the strongest drinker out there, but she’s a smart drinker and knows her limits very well.

In college, what feels like years and years ago, Clarke had learned this Tchaikovsky concerto, but she needed to brush it up. It’s not perfect yet, but her good memory had kicked in a week ago. All that’s really left is to play with the CSO— and being late is going to make a really bad impression.

And, just her luck, traffic is terrible. Paying the cab driver, she steps out, bag dangling loosely in her hands and spies what must be one of the orchestra members waiting for her. She’s ready to make nice, despite the jet lag and feeling overwhelmed and exhausted, but he beats her to the punch.

“You’re late.”

Yeah, like she doesn’t know that already. But, still, she’s to be nice and now that she’s a little closer she recognizes him: Bellamy Blake, concertmaster for the CSO. He’s taller than she thought, his hair curlier. “I tried taking the El and got lost. You know, Chicago’s quite a confusing city.”

“Your first time here, then?” He asks, and okay, maybe this can work out. He’s cute enough, and this seems to be a pretty decent question, maybe he’s not as big an ass as his first impression implies.

“Yeah,” she replies, standing by him and waiting for him to enter the building. “I also just got back from Italy; I’m exhausted.”

Somehow, this is the wrong thing to say. His expression, almost friendly, flattens very quickly and there’s even a little animosity in his face. “Is that so.” He opens the door for her and she steps through; it was slightly cloudy out, but the inside is darker. None of the lights in the hallway are on. Without any direction, she starts walking and doubles back when Bellamy tells her, “Practice room is this way.” Why didn’t he just take the lead then, she thinks, smiling at him then dropping it when he stares flatly at her.

But she will still try and play nice. After all, the battle isn’t over yet. “So, how long have you been playing?”

“Do you even know what instrument I play,” he asks, and— this is the last straw.

“Look, do we have a problem?” She near hisses, grabbing his arm in front of a door.

“What makes you think there is?”

He sounds nonchalant, like this doesn’t matter to him, and it infuriates her. How can he not care? Why is he being such an asshole? She doesn’t understand it _at all_.

She lets go of his arm. “I’m not an idiot, but you seem to be one. You seem to think I got here on my parent’s power, and that’s on you.” This happened in Italy as well; they all glanced askance at her for ages and asked about her dad, a once famous pianist himself. It wasn’t the first time: it’s been every time. Bellamy isn’t the first, and he won’t be the last. Thinking of it, how the tension had stopped everything, she narrows her eyes at him. “Do you even like the violin? Or music?” It’s the only reason she can think of.

College was the first time she faced the prejudice. It came from a violist, short with broad arms and a huge handspan that made her jealous; he had started a sort of smear campaign against her, insistent that she had only gotten in based on her parents. If she’s being honest, that first concert had been because of her mom. She had taken a long break from piano after her dad’s death until pushed into this particular concert, but the dislike emanating from this violist nearly pushed her into never playing again, into hating music and the piano. It didn’t take long for his position in the orchestra to crumble. The rest of the orchestra didn’t care much for him and a year later he quit.

It seems to her now that hatred and what results in it stems from problems with music: if they loved music, the instrument, wouldn’t they look past petty problems? If she let it affect her every single time, Clarke wouldn’t be standing with a hand on the door handle, staring pointedly at Bellamy like this. She isn’t famous yet, and sometimes her dad’s fame bothers her, but her perspective has changed. Her hurdle is taller than most other’s and she will jump it every single time. She will exceed expectations.

With that she pushes the door open and strides into the room with confidence she has nurtured carefully. She takes her sunglasses off with one hand and tucks them into her purse as she strides down the aisles with a cheerful smile.

“Hi,” she says as loud as she can. Some people perk up and glance towards her; a tall woman walks towards her with a friendly smile and introduces herself as Roma. Another guy with a beanie says he’s Miller, and soon she is chatting amicably with all of them. When Bellamy comes in, she is careful to not send a look of any sort towards him. It would be beneath her.

Soon enough, the conductor shows up and Roma returns to her seat. She’s a nice girl, though Clarke has never especially gotten along well with cellists in the past. Then they start and, it’s only been a few weeks, but the rush and adrenaline of playing with an orchestra is the best in the world. She can hear Bellamy behind her and has to admit that, despite his issues, he’s good. She won’t tell him that, god forbid, but he hits each dynamic in just the way she likes.

It’s a little uncomfortable how his decisions seem to match her own image perfectly, and now she’s wondering what a violin-piano duet would be like between the two of them. To counteract, when they break, she tosses a smirk at him over her shoulder. He looks gobsmacked, which he should.

Her mom might have power, her dad might be famous, but Clarke gets by on her own skills above all. It is tiring to convince people of this every time, but she knows that soon enough people will know her for her and not her parents.


End file.
